One of the privileges of living in Paris is that sometimes even the metro stations give your averagely upper-crust museum a run for its money...

The doors opened and the grunginess of this shot admirably reflects the controlled panic with which I extracted my phone from my pocket, fumbled to switch it on, wait the interminable seven seconds for the photo function to wake up and grab the shot before the doors slid shut again and my train moved off to another platform of dreams.

It's funny how sometimes results show us what we want. At first I was disappointed not to have got the who phrase, 'Vestiges of the Bastille' in my picture when I checked it out later. But in retrospect I preferred it.

The dictionary definition of 'vestiges' is 'a trace of something something that is disappearing or no longer exists'. This blurry word, hovering over the remains of a man, his head on a plastic bag, clothes clinging, a perverse spectacle every time a train rolls in and the doors open and close like some exaggerated slow-motion snapshot of a lost life... it now seems to fit the image better than ever.

My train moved on, as ever, but the vestiges still remain, in the form of this photograph, of something disappearing or no longer existing: this moment, this motion, this emotion, this man.

Prepare for a series of fuzzies to blur before your bleary eyes. I've developed this worrying habit of getting up at some ridiculous hour like 5am and needing to hit the plastic (keys) while everyone else is still flattening feathers or foam.

This wouldn't be quite so bad if it weren't for the wonders of the Parisian transport system meaning that often enough I don't actually get into bed before one or two in the morning, as was the case the day I took this pic.

Here we are resignedly waiting for the latest announcement about cancelled trains and late night diversions... This time I had to take a bus, of all things, from Gare Austerlitz to Saint-Germain lès Arpajon, finally arriving home at about two in the morning. It was hardly worth my going to bed, methoughts, but I just about did get four hours kip or so.

The draw of the screen and the warm caffeine has become worryingly insistent of late, and I fear I may have some sort of addiction, one of those strange modern ones, you know, like video gaming or macaroon munching.

Oh, and tallking of food, have you heard of the latest McDonald's initiative: the McBaguette (hot on the heels of the McCafé). Oh yeah... more on that story as it breaks, you can rest assured of that.

Anyway, from one platform to another, I'll leave you here, hoping your trains are more reliable than mine, be they thought or transport-based. Good morning!

P.S. In my delirium I realise that this shot isn't actually late at night at all, because that white square you can see is yer good old day-light, this being an RER station out in the open, but you got my point hopefully. More coffee, more coffee, and NOW... and matchsticks...

Parisian soirées are really something special, and I go to far too few.

Yesterday, though, as you'll have guessed, was an exception. Sometimes these things are paying, sometimes free, and sometimes voluntary, as was the case here.

Now, I'm not talking about a casual get-together with friends, although I was with friends. Here, I'm talking about a very popular type of event where there is a 'speaker', who will generally have done something 'significant', such as written a book, taken photos somewhere exotic, or 'simply' led a fascinating life, as was the case here.

Not quite true about the 'simply' led a fascinating life part, because all these meetings with the likes of Fidel Castro, Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, Ingmar Bergman, Woody Allen, Picasso, Che Guevara... came about primarily through her work as a journalist. It was the stories she told about them which were the draw of the evening however, and great they were too.

You can get a real taste for them by visiting this blog post from Kaaren, one of the hosts, the hostess, in fact, which basically covers the whole thing.

At one point in the evening, as Edith Sorel's charming and pleasantly French-tinged tones lapped over me, I found myself fascinated by the dancing silhouette of her elegant hand which was conducting the rhythm of her discourse as surely as any orchestra maestro's. The other puffed on an electronic cigarette like Johnny Depp in The Tourist.

This symbolic photo will now immortalise the evening for me and whenever I see it I'll remember how delightful a Parisian soirée can be - my goodness, how many must she have been too... - and how lucky I was to be invited. Thanks Kaaren, Richard, Edith and your dancing hand.

What a desperate desire we have to see reflections of ourselves in this dehumanising environment we've created to 'live' in. We smile if a drain cover looks like a face and even clouds can brighten our day if we 'recognise' a famous politician or country in their ragged outlines.

There's a hint of naughtiness too in the above 'piece'; an illicit wink to our fellow humans, that we, as humans, know how to have a laugh and even cold concrete functional items can be given a semi-soul with a dash of red marker here and there..

We're at Les Halles, and this - I almost said 'chap' - piece of urban furniture is sitting under a little walkway between the Rue de la Ferronerie and the Fontaine des Innocents, where King Henri IV was murdered. Whether 'he' is laughing or crying is not clear, as the 'mouth' is decidedly neutral, and the eyes also give nothing away, à la Mona Lisa.

And what, in fact, is this little box, with a little mate behind him if you look? Dunno. But I'd guess it might hold salt for those dangerous days when snow hits suddenly to stop people slip-sliding away on the wicked white peril (as opposed to the legendary brown one Paris is so famous for...).

Thursday, 26 April 2012

If I asked you what we're looking at here, I'd hazard a guess that quite a few of you would propose... well, what would you say?

And I'd say you were wrong. How far from reality could you get whilst believing you were actually in a Parisian metro station (St. Ambroise, to be precise, and let's be quite precise about our irreality, right?) seeing a girl being reflected in a mirror being peeked at by a shadowy figure in a stairwell.

So wrong. We're all actually looking at a bit of luminescent plastic called a screen. No?

Which got me to thinking about how far from honest to goodness reality we've actually wandered, this good species of ours, in the last few decades. Talking into pieces of hollow Bakelite. 'Listening' to vibrating cones which make us laugh or cry. And above all, having our emotions piqued by shiny bits of plastic, or glass or canvas of some sort or other. None of it 'real', as it were.

How many hours do you, or people you know, spend 'glued to the box', as we used to say. These days maybe it's an even more extreme form of irreality we indulge in, where we really do believe (almost) we're driving that racecar, thrashing Nadal or, most popular and fun of all, killing vast numbers of people in the most inventively horrifying ways possible. All in the name of good clean fun. Because we can't actually 'do it' in 'reality'.

Is reality such an awful thing? It would seem so for a lot of us. Although we might argue that watching TV or being immersed in Second Life or World of Warcraft is the new reality.

It's soap operas which depress me the most. Living other people's misery like it's our own. That and the slew of gory murder series you get all evening, every evening on more than one handy channel in the comfort of your own 'living' room.

I'm as guilty as anyone of living a virtual reality, and maybe even a virtual life.

I kid myself that I'm 'communicating' with people as I type these words, whereas, to extend my own point, all I'm doing is hitting a set of plastic clickety-clack buttons on a 'keyboard' in a certain order with my fingers and talking to myself about my thoughts. There ain't no-one 'hearing' them at the same time as me. Maybe no-one ever will. But then again someone just might. And think they're actually on the platform at St. Ambroise metro station in Paris looking at a strangely reflected reality (look closely if you dare) of sorts and imagine themselves 'there', wherever 'there' is. In which case, nice you could join me. I'll maybe meet you down 'there' sometime.

Wednesday, 25 April 2012

It's funny how many people defile and denigrate the name of the French Front National, and in particular the name of Marine Le Pen, when close to 20% of the French electorate vote for her in the first round of the presidential election

The first round is traditionally the place people can place their protest votes, but it's becoming less and less certain to what extent it's a protest and to what point it's an actual adhesion.

It's definitely a case of her saying stuff which is too painful but too true to deny.

Of course there's other stuff she says which many consider unacceptable, but after her father making the second round of the French election a few years ago, and her evident softening on certain sensitive positions - a woman's touch? - we're seeing a definite change in the political climate.

And given Sarkozy's constant negation of most of her views, although less this time than five years ago, and the left's obvious antagonism, it looks like she'll be asking for a vote blanche, as a public indication of disgust - it turns out that the last thing the FN wants, necessarily, is a victory for Sarkozy's right. Paradoxical but true. What would they have to win? Not much.

But if the left win, the FN can fight it out with Sarkozy's UMP for the crown of the political right in France. And when you lose an election, there's no saying what might happen, including implosion, and the FN would be rubbing their hands at the potential fall-out, such as high-profile politicians of just the sort they're lacking, defecting, tempted by the call of potential power. A new sort of power. No lying...

Tuesday, 24 April 2012

History is most pleasing, I think, when it comes to meet you in the streets of the city, offering en element of mystery or intrigue, and begging to be investigated and, if you're lucky, demasked.

Such is the case with this delightful first floor (second if you're from the US) façade with more than meets the eye to its make-up.

There's an urban legend which says it was here, in an erstwhile apothecary's store, that Henri IV was tended to after his fatal encounter with a certain M. Ravaillac in the nearby Rue de la Ferronerie.

It's not been corroborated, though, so let's look at another of my favourite aspects of this thing, and indeed something I rather obsessively collect: the 'MACL' sign. I'm not going to tell you about it because I've already done so here and elsewhere and you can always read the archives or leave a comment below if you really need to know and fast! It's a beauty.

And what's nice is that on the other side of the window is the house number in exactly the same style, producing one of the most spectacular Paris wall markers in the entire city. It'll definitely feature in my Top 100 Paris House Numbers, currently in preparation in my brain, but as space is strictly limited it might be a moment before this particular series sees the light of day.

Finally, there's the 'Au Bourdon d'Or' legend and shell-encrusted crest above the window. The strange thing is I'd have expected a huge golden bumble bee in the style of plenty of other Paris icons like that golden snail not far from here, but no.

It turns out, though, that bourdon as well as a huge honey-layer can mean other things, many relating to the sound a bumble bee makes, i.e. a low and powerful hum or drone such as the lowest strings or sound-producing devices of certain musical instruments like bells or organs or bagpipes. Not so much as a hint of a bagpipe or any sort of pipe up there though.

Now, my eyes are not so great, and picture isn't that sharp either, so I honestly couldn't tell you if there's a bee on the thing or not, but could there possibly be something resembling a... pilgrim's staff? Maybe, just maybe that vertical central golden element, crowned by a big shiny blob is supposed to be a pilgrim's staff. And why am I going on about pilgrims' staffs, you are really starting to wonder.

Well the French bourdon also translates as, did you guess..? Pilgrim's staff. When it's at home.

When the cat's away, the rats will play, as they say here in France. Actually, they don't, they have dancing mice but never mind, this picture sums things up nicely and is enough to make Remy from Ratatouille's eyes water, and besides I couldn't find any mice but these guys were having a great time at Les Halles where they'd no doubt been displaced by the re-re-doing of the huge shopping centre just around the corner.

I'm not sure about rats, but they do say that there's a mouse for every Parisian, and between you and me, from what I've seen (more rats than mice), the former can't be far behind in the stats if not ahead. Shiver.

Don't worry, though, they don't go out of their way to be seen, preferring the underground, and that is indeed one of the places you are fairly likely to see them, scurrying amongst the rails looking for, euww, I don't want to think about what they might be looking for. Almost makes you wanna throw the last mouthful of your sandwich down there for the poor wee things, starving as they must be.

Almost launched into a discussion on what rats eat, but on lightning fast reflection decided against it as I'm snacking myself and want to continue doing so.

Having said all that, in theory we could all eat rat, and indeed did during the Siege of Paris, for example, back in 1870, along with cats, probably bats and the unfortunate population of the local zoo. Reminds me of my local curry house back in Bradford in the day, or was that Alsatians they found in the freezer, oh anyway, bon appétit, whatever your poison.

Funnily enough, what you can't see in this pic is that it was pissing it down (yep, it rains in Paris) and I was so 'kin' wet, like your proverbial drowned, but I'm outta time, I gotta go, rats.

And secondly, for the next 24 hours, TV stations, radio broadcasters and I suppose blogs and the like are not supposed to disseminate any info relating to the election and voters intentions.

Not that I fall into that category. Indeed, they could face a hefty fine and who knows, maybe prison if they do so. In the name of neutrality.

I therefore hope that the posters I present here have all been defaced to the same degree, give or take the odd moustache or gloopy green glasses, but what can you do.

By the time I write the following Paris Photo Chronicle, we'll know who's going through to the second round.

One would think it would be Sarkozy and Holland, but stranger things have happened, like when Le Pen made it to the second round against Chirac a decade back.

Funnily enough his daughter's running this year, and the French have a certain penchant for the right given half a chance, so who knows..?

Who would you do, out of these clowns, if any? The choice, as ever, is tricky. Which is all part of the fun. As ever.

P.S. This isn't all the candidates (there are ten), just those who were suitably defaced to fit into the spirit of this posting. And maybe to give them back a bit of exposure they might have lost out on otherwise. Who knows.

Whether Eva Joly, the 'green' candidate, has been defaced or not is not for me to say. All I can say is that the imagination of the French poster plunderers remains as richly creative as ever. Maybe I'd vote for them if they ever came up for election.

When I was younger, and I was once, you know, I had a small fat Greek wedding, and my best man had to chase me and my bride around the alter holding these two wreath thingies over our heads, just like what the statues doing in the picture.

I had long hair at the time; well, I had hair; and I remember being annoyed because it was getting tugged all over the place by these spiky things. Ain't tradition grand. And if it was supposed to bestow some sort of charm on our marriage, well, here I am in France so, next!

The statue isn't actually participating in a Greek hair tugging pre-divorce ceremony but represents victory (them there's the laurels of) being offered to, did you guess... that modest little chap that goes by the name of Little Big Nap the 1st.

The first emperor's victories at Lodi, Pyramides (not the metro station), Marengo, Ulm and the Siege of Dantzig in Poland are lauded on the column, in case you'd forgotten how great Napoleon actually was.

The statue's in gorgeous gold, with a couple of very impressive resting wings, and, hmm, oh yeah, she's got her tits out for the boys, in a touching display of humble piety.

Egypt features regularly in the Paris urban landscape, and this is a good example, with the column standing in the Fontaine du Palmier (or du Châtelet, or de la Victoire if you prefer) which sports four impressive sphynx spouting water but as they're not in the pic I won't mention them. Oops, just did.

It may be that the Tricolor did fly at the time of Napoleon, as it had been adopted by the French National Convention back in the mid 1790s, but what is represented by the colours is a little harder to say.

Take the white, for example. It could be variously interpreted as symbolising the monarchy, Joan of Arc, or the Virgin Mary. Blue and red are the colours of Paris (thanks Sts. Mart and Den, respectively). So the white surrounded by the city's hues could be interpreted as a cosy relationship between the royalty and the town, or perhaps a rather forced and claustrophobic relationship for the king, as various rolling heads had all too recently proved.

My head's still attached, the last time I checked, but the direct link to the heart my be a little shaky. And the rice-throwing. Don't get me started on the rice-throwing... σας δούμε σύντομα.

She had a beautiful mouth, this young lady, who's sadly turned away from us, but if I'm not mistaken the angle between her forehead and the bridge of her nose is approaching 90°, which will never do at all at all at all.

Sigh. You can't have everything in this life, not even luciously-lipped nobbly nosed ephemera...

How easy it is to be dreadfully discerning when you haven't actually got any choice at all. It's funny.

Given the choice, would you take Brad Pitt or Johnny Depp, both desperately desirable, both direly distant.

Like her gaze, floating just this side of her imaginary horizon as we watch the decidedly unsexy walls of the tunnels of RER line C go by. Or as we go by them, precisely speaking.

There's a wind getting up, and I should too; I've been stuck in front of this shifting screen for too long. The dog needs a walk and I need a talk with myself about this and that, and I'm such a good listener, don't you know?

Will I be able to drag myself away from the computer for a few minutes? Yes, I think I will. I have a very dangerous trip to Paris planned and if I do go in, with my store card, and if the item in question is available, well, there's no accounting for what might happen.

Please don't repeat what you've read here. Or I may have to kill you. Or myself. but preferably you, I'm sure you understand, it's nothing personal. We're just strangers on the train of life, remember, waiting for a heart attack to happen. Mouth to mouth has always been my forte...